Playing commenced. An hour elapsed, and the situation of none of the parties was materially different from what it had been when they began the game. Vivian proposed leaving off; but Mr. St. George avowed that he felt very fortunate, and that he had a presentiment that he should win. Another hour elapsed, and he had lost considerably. Eleven o’clock: Vivian’s luck had also deserted him. Mr. St. George was losing desperately. Midnight: Vivian had lost back half his gains on the season. St. George still more desperate, all his coolness had deserted him. He had persisted obstinately against a run on the red; then floundered and got entangled in a seesaw, which alone cost him a thousand. Ernstorff now brought in refreshments; and for a moment they ceased playing. The Baron opened a bottle of champagne; and St. George and the Chevalier were stretching their legs and composing their minds in very different ways, the first in walking rapidly up and down the room, and the other by lying very quietly at his full length on the sofa; Vivian was employed in building houses with the cards. “Grey,” said the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, “I cannot imagine why you do not for a moment try to forget the cards: that is the only way to win. Never sit musing over the table.” But Grey was not to be persuaded to give up building his pagoda: which, now many stories high, like a more celebrated but scarcely more substantial structure, fell with a crash. Vivian collected the scattered cards into two divisions. “Now!” said the Baron, seating himself, “for St. George’s revenge.” The Chevalier and the greatest sufferer took their places. “Is Ernstorff coming in again, Baron?” asked Vivian. “No! I think not.” “Let us be sure; it is disagreeable to be disturbed at this time of night.” “Lock the door, then,” said St. George. “A very good plan,” said Vivian; and he locked it accordingly. “Now, gentlemen,” said Vivian, rising from the table, and putting both packs of cards into his pocket; “now, gentlemen, I have another game to play.” The Chevalier started on his chair, the Baron turned pale, but both were silent. “Mr. St. George,” continued Vivian, “I think that you owe the Chevalier de Boeffleurs about four thousand Napoleons, and to Baron von Konigstein something more than half that sum. I have to inform you that it is unnecessary for you to satisfy the claims of either of these gentlemen, which are founded neither in law nor in honour.” “Mr. Grey, what am I to understand?” asked the quiet Chevalier de Boeffleurs, with the air of a wolf and the voice of a lion. “Understand, sir!” answered Vivian, sternly, “that I am not one who will be bullied by a blackleg.” “Grey! good God! what do you mean?” asked the Baron. “That which it is my duty, not my pleasure, to explain, Baron von Konigstein.” “If you mean to insinuate,” burst forth the Chevalier.